


Infinite Nights

by bleep0bleep



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, Angst with a Happy Ending, Campfires, First Time, Kissing, M/M, Minor Braeden/Derek Hale, Minor Liam Dunbar/Mason, POV Alternating, POV Scott McCall, POV Stiles Stilinski, Scott-Centric, Skinny Dipping, Summer, Summer Camp
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-03 18:18:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4110484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleep0bleep/pseuds/bleep0bleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott knows this summer is going to be the one, the one where he leads his first successful backcountry trip, proves himself as a leader and can start the transition from volunteer to paid staff. He didn't plan to meet Stiles, the juvenile delinquent who thinks going to wilderness camp is a joke and has seemed to make it his mission to get into Scott's pants. </p>
<p>Stiles would have gladly gone to jail for his latest prank on Jackson, but his great-aunt and his social worker Morrell seems to think he can still make something of himself. He doesn't care about the trees and the view and the lake-- Scott is nineteen to Stiles' eighteen and Stiles is just <i>knows</i> they would be good together, but the guy is hung up on this counselor/camper thing. </p>
<p>Between s'mores, skinny dipping, lightning storms, there's plenty of time to fall in love when you least expect it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2015 [Bitetime Fest](http://bitetime.tumblr.com/faq), for a prompt based on the movie _Augusta, Gone_. The premise of the challenge was to create Lifetime-worthy fics based on just the summaries of the movie. This particular fic was inspired by the summary _a parent struggles to control their teenager's out-of-control behavior by sending them to a wilderness camp._
> 
> I have a huge love of wilderness camps, having worked quite a few summers in one as a volunteer and then as a counselor, and I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone in my amazing sprinter's circle, and also to Jay, K, and Charm for the read through.

“You can’t smoke in here!”

Stiles rolls his eyes and plucks the cigarette from his lips, flicking the ash a little so it lands on the clean carpet. He ignores the disapproving tone of his great-aunt and the impatient cough from the woman behind the desk, never mind that this is a great “opportunity” to turn himself around.

He’d rather go to jail. Juvie. Whatever. Stiles doesn’t give a fuck.

The collar of his bargain basement shirt sticks uncomfortably to his skin, and the starched fabric of his too-small suit jacket strains against his arms as he reaches to put the cigarette out. Stiles jams the butt right into the little rocks surrounding the roots of the fancy potted plant on the desk. It’s delicate looking, a whorl of orange-pink petals on a slim green stem, shivering slightly in the air-conditioned room of Marin Morrell’s office.

She purses her lips but doesn’t say anything.

Deborah Rose Stilinski does, however. It’s many, many things, and Stiles tunes out the sound of her shrill, grating voice. He’s heard all of them many times in many variations before, how she can’t believe Stiles used to be such a good boy, and he should be grateful that his great-aunt could take him in, that this is the last straw--

“What would your father think of your behavior?” Auntie Deb cries out.

“Absolutely nothing,” Stiles spits out, more vehemently than he intended, because now there’s an old coil of hurt unraveling in his gut. “He’s in a coma, he’s not _thinking_ anything. That’s what getting shot multiple times does to you, you know, and he isn’t gonna think anything ever, I wonder why you don’t just pull the plug on him so he doesn’t have to die slowly like Mom--”

Ms. Morrell speaks. Her voice is clear and steady, just like the clean lines of the office. “I do have a busy schedule, if we can stay on topic of Mr. Stilinski’s future, I would appreciate that.”

Auntie Deb huffs and throws Stiles a look that says the conversation isn’t over.

Stiles throws his feet up on the desk, watching Morrell for a reaction as his dirty boots hit the surface and scatters some paperwork.

“This program is nationally recognized and highly recommended,” Morrell says. “The fact that we found an opening so soon is incredibly lucky. People pay for this kind of guided backpacking trip, actually, and there are only a limited number of backcountry permits available every year. The Sierras are gorgeous. You’re in for a treat, Mr. Stilinski.”

“Pfft. Playing boy scout? I don’t think so. Just send me to jail.”

Auntie Deb pushes his feet off Morrell’s desk. “You think you know what it will be like just because you’ve gone to juvenile detention a few times? You are eighteen now, still a boy to me but in the eyes of the law you have to face the consequences like a man, and you have no idea how much paperwork and pleading I’ve done with State Social Services, convincing them that you aren’t a lost cause--”

Stiles stops listening at this point, because he knows he is.

“Mrs. Stilinski, can you excuse us for a moment? I want to talk to Stiles alone.” Morrell folds her hands neatly and smiles at them. The smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

Stiles watches his great-aunt hobble out of the office, sighing to herself. The trial had not gone well. _Stilinski vs the State of California_ had gone in favor of the State of California, of course, and Stiles was found guilty of excessive destruction of property, grand theft auto (haha), and attempted kidnapping (Fuck you, Jackson. Stiles had just wanted to talk to him, scare him a little. And that police transport vehicle was just _there,_ okay? It had seemed like the perfect plan.)

As soon as the door closes Morrell folds her hands and stares evenly at Stiles, and for some reason the air in the room seems a lot colder. She holds Stiles’ gaze, waiting.

Stiles crosses his arms. “Why don’t you just say what I know you’re thinking? I’m a fuckup. I’m always gonna be a fuckup. You just felt sorry for me and decided to send me to camp because you think I can’t handle jail. Well, guess what?” Stiles yanks the knife out of his pocket, flips it open and starts cleaning his nails nonchalantly. “I can. I’ve done juvie four times. I’ve got grown ass adult teachers at the high school scared of me.” He gives her a cold smile. “I can handle jail.”

Morrell raises an eyebrow. “Do you really expect to keep this tough act up for the rest of your life?” she says.

“It’s not an act, lady. I _am_ tough,” Stiles insists. He starts playing with his knife, stabbing the desk between his fingers, a fast moving game he’s taught himself that easily impresses others.

Morrell reaches out and in the blink of an eye and a sharp twist of Stiles’ wrist, she’s got his knife in her hand. She closes it, her eyes steely and unwavering on Stiles’ own. “You are wrong,” she says. “I don’t think you’re a fuckup. You’re smart. Resourceful. I know you were on the gifted track in middle school, and then your mom died. I know you hung around a group of kids more interested in petty theft and vandalism than school, and when your father was shot you just stopped caring about your future. Like you think you don’t have one.”

“Got it right in one.”

“This is your last chance. Take it and prove yourself wrong.” Morrell hands him back his knife. It’s cold in his hand, and feels heavier somehow.


	2. Chapter 2

Scott lifts the last of the supplies off of Daisy’s back and pats the burro’s head fondly. She sniffs at his pockets, nosing for the carrots he usually keeps in there, but they’re empty right now. Daisy snorts at him, pushing her big fuzzy snout into his stomach.

“Let me get this to the shed and I will be right back with a snack for you,” Scott says.

He passes Braeden, sprawled out on the porch of the main cabin on his way to the storage shed, and she whistles at him. “You’ve definitely been eating your vitamins,” she says, looking over a topographic map.

Scott laughs, shifting the heavy canvas bag of food packages so it’s more balanced on his shoulders. He feels good, happy. The air is bright and clean, has this wonderful crisp feel he would never find in the city. In the distance he can hear birds chirping and the wind rustling through the trees. Laughter and splashing comes from the lake, where Derek’s current group is doing laundry. Or something like that. Sounds more like Marco Polo to him, but Scott won’t tell anyone.

Scott sets down the bag in the shed-- well, more of a walk-in refrigerator, but everyone calls it the shed. He puts away all the perishables as quickly as he can,  grabbing some carrots on the way out, humming as he heads back to the stable. He finishes taking care of the burros, making sure they have food and water, and takes time to pet each of them and tell them how great they were on the hike in.

Scott loves his job. Well, hopefully to be soon job. He’s only a counselor-in-training at Project WYLD (Wilderness Youth Leadership and Development), and a volunteer to boot, but he thinks his time is well paid in the amazing camping and backpacking opportunities he has in the high Sierras with the company. He’s got quite a bit of experience, having started at WYLD at thirteen as a camper, and then came back to train as a counselor because he loved the program so much.

Daisy nudges him and Scott laughs, scratching her under the chin. The WYLD basecamp is deep in the Golden Trout wilderness, inaccessible by road. Everyone and everything has to be hiked in, or brought on horseback or burro from the the trailhead, which is a good two hour drive up the mountain.

Scott’s excited to take on new responsibilities; this morning he took all the burros out on his own to meet the supply truck at the trailhead and hike back. It’s been a long day, and his muscles are a bit sore, but knowing Derek and Braeden trusted him to do this task alone is all worth it.  

Scott’s extra pleased especially when the kids in Derek’s group start racing back to camp, holding piles of wet laundry to hang up.

“Hey, Scott!”

“Hi, Mister Scott!”

“Are you gonna play that game with us again later?”

“Scott! Do you want to look at this-- um, thing? Derek taught me to knit? I think it’s supposed to be a sock.”

Scott greets the kids as they run past, remembering all their names easily, Jim, Tessa, April, Ricky, Mags, a rambunctious group of thirteen to fifteen year olds. He’s worked with them a lot through the week, and it’s been great to see them grow from shy, reserved kids to this happy bunch, excited to be here. He hopes one day he’ll be trusted to lead a group on his own. Scott’s got a few years of training under his belt, and he’s led successful hikes and backcountry trips before, but always with one of the other counselors as support, someone with more experience.

Derek claps a hand on Scott’s shoulder, looking scrutinizingly at Daisy, happily munching on a carrot.

“You do know we only have so much people food and the donkeys eat the compost on purpose, right?” Derek asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Ah, but Daisy loves carrots. She can have my share of them, I never liked them much,” Scott says.

Derek shakes his head but he ends up scratching under Daisy’s ear before walking over to join Braeden on the porch. Scott chuckles to himself; for all that the camp leader likes to pretend he’s a tough and grizzled outdoorsman (and it works, Scott’s seen him be stiff and grumpy, an unreadable persona with the corporate sponsors at WYLD fundraisers), Derek’s a huge softy. Like right now, he’s gently pushing a strand of Braeden’s hair behind her ear and making soft adoring eyes at her while she works at the map, planning the next trip.

It’s sweet.

Scott feels a wistful pang; he hasn’t dated anyone in awhile, misses being in a relationship, having someone to connect to. He still talks to Allison, but not much really, just a message or sees a status update on Facebook every now and then  from her first year at university abroad in France. Danny still lives in town but his new boyfriend takes up most of his time, and Kira’s so busy wrapped up in her first year at Stanford she doesn’t really have time for any of her old high school friends.

Scott sighs, taking a walk towards the lake so he doesn’t have to see the couple making eyes at each other. He’s not particularly lonely, he’s always had a good number of friends growing up, had people who liked him and he liked back, dated girls and guys and remained on good terms with them, but he’s never felt like he’s really connected with anyone.

Liam and Mason are still in the water, and Mason’s holding Derek’s waterproof stopwatch. Liam bursts through the surface, laughing and splashing water at Mason, who promptly calls out, “One minute twenty two seconds!”

They should be done with their laundry by now, but the pile of wet clothes by the shoreline is forgotten, and the boys are giggling and splashing at each other, playing some sort of breath-holding game.

“You guys should be getting cleaned up for dinner,” Scott says, crossing his arms.

“C’mon, Scott, Ricky held his breath for a whole two minutes, and I have to beat him,” Liam pants out, and then disappears under the water again.

Mason rolls his eyes.

Liam gurgles.

“Thought you guys were cooking tonight for the whole camp, don’t want to be late for that,” Scott says, hoping to appeal to Mason’s sense of responsibility.

Mason tilts his head. “He’s my best friend, man. He wants to do this, and I gotta be there for him. You know how it is.”

Scott doesn’t actually know how it is. He’s never had a best friend, not in the way Liam-and-Mason have been this entire week, private jokes and smiles, walking in synchronization, a whole history of connected past and friendship. “Uh, yeah. You’re technically not supposed to be at the lake without supervision.”

“We both totally did the CPR training and water safety management before we signed up for the trip! Derek said it was okay if we hung out longer, he can totally see us, too. We’re like, almost counselors in training, like you!” Mason turns his face to Scott, pleading.

Scott wades into the water suddenly, some instinct calling to his gut. The cold surrounds him, seeping through his clothes, but he doesn’t take notice, just grabs Liam by the armpit and hauls him up.

Liam splutters, gasping. “Time!”

“Two minutes… three seconds!” Mason crows. He high fives Liam, who looks rather blue in the face.

“Really,” Scott mutters.

“Yeah!” Liam says, and oh so maturely sticks his tongue out at Scott. “I could have totally gone for longer if you didn’t get me.”

“Well, I’d rather you not drown trying to figure out your holding breath limit, so I think I win.” Scott grabs Mason as well and hauls them both to the shoreline.

“How come you didn’t hang out with us today, Scott?” Liam asks, grabbing his wet laundry.

“Had to do a supply run,” Scott says. “You know, stuff you will be doing if you’re still interested in training to be a counselor.”

“By yourself, though?” Liam’s eyes widen in awe. “Wow.”

“Dude, that’s gonna be us one day,” Mason says, bumping Liam affectionately with his hip. “Going on supply runs! Leading backcountry trips!”

Scott smiles. It never fails to please him when other campers get excited about the program and want to in turn volunteer for it. “You’ll have to do lots of training. I’ve been volunteering here since I was sixteen.”

Liam does a double take. “Wait, you told me before that you haven’t led a trip yet! But haven’t you been working here for like forever? How-- how old are you anyways?”

Scott blinks at him. “How old did you think I was?”

Liam blushes. “Ah, you’re so mature and cool I just thought-- like, um, not as old as Derek but -- mid-twenties, maybe?”

Mason mock-whispers, “Why don’t you tell Scott more about how _mature and cool_ you think he is--”

Liam shushes him by throwing a wet t-shirt at his face.

Scott laughs. “I’m nineteen. Not much older than you guys, actually.”

“Huh, never would have guessed,” Mason says.

“He _is_ very mature and responsible,” Liam says, admiration evident in his voice.

“That’s enough.” Scott can feel his face flushing already. “You guys really need to hang up your clothes and go join the rest of your group in the kitchens, bet they’re all waiting for you.”

He watches Liam and Mason rush off, grinning and bumping into each other, falling into step like they are two halves of the same soul.

Scott wishes he could have something like that.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles is miserable. Not only did he have to sit in a ratty van going up the highway for half the day, said ratty van is filled with other teenagers, all loud and unruly, some of them attending WYLD in lieu of juvenile detention or jail like Stiles is, and some of them obviously paying for the experience, with expensive haircuts and designer outdoor clothing, looking down their noses at the “scholarship” lot. Stiles is crammed in the backseat, feeling nauseous as the van starts on the winding road up the mountain.

When the van finally stops, Stiles scrambles out as quickly as he can, stumbling over his own feet until he vomits spectacularly onto the road.

He looks up and realizes they’re not even in a parking lot. They’ve just pulled off the side of the road, and they’re in the middle of the fucking forest, no signs of a campground or cabins or anything like that around. There is a man, though, standing there by the side of the road, some hippie asshole with the outdoor group, Stiles guesses. If the wild beard didn’t give it away, then the too bright t-shirt that proclaims “WYLD” in obnoxiously cheery letters makes it very clear he’s here for them.

Stiles doesn’t really register, because his breakfast is coming up again.

By the time Stiles gets his bearings and is wiping his mouth clean, the rich kids have their packs all on, waiting diligently for the leader dude.

“We’re leaving for basecamp in two minutes,” the man says, folding his arms.

“Fuck no,” the boy who had sat next to Stiles for the entire ride declares. He’s six feet tall and at least two hundred pounds, must be used to being intimidating, but the WYLD guy doesn’t even blink when the teenager launches himself at him.

The black kid who sat in the corner and was silent the whole trip lets out a small amused chuckle when WYLD man easily holds the other kid at bay, swinging his arms uselessly, trying to land a punch and failing.

“Like I said, we’re leaving for basecamp in two minutes. My name is Derek and I’m the head counselor at WYLD. You should also know that the van is going back down the mountain, and it’s a three mile trek to get to camp. Grab your pack. I won’t tolerate any shenanigans on the trail.” Derek speaks with a steady voice, and the kid who challenged him-- Bob or Brian or something-- makes a sad, pathetic noise, falling forward when Derek steps back.

“Not all of you are here for the same program. WYLD runs a various number of backcountry trips through the Golden Trout wilderness every summer, and they all leave through our basecamp. You’ll be at basecamp for three days to get acclimated to the altitude as well as go through our preliminary activities-- hiking, teambuilding, journaling, earth science lessons, everything that was described in your welcome pamphlet. You’ll meet your trail leader and join up with the rest of the group you’ll be doing your trek with there.”  

Derek stares them all down and folds his arms.

The rich kids scramble to get in line behind him, and Stiles grudgingly grabs his backpack from where it was dumped on the floor, probably right before the driver took off. The ridiculous thing is heavy, and he wobbles a bit, still feeling lightheaded.

The guy next to him gives him a worried look. “You okay?”

“Just carsick,” Stiles grits out. He isn’t here to make any friends.

“My little sister got that all the time. I’m Boyd, by the way.” He offers Stiles something from his pocket. A mint of some kind.

Stiles takes it, the refreshing flavor distracting him from the headache and the queasy feeling in his stomach. “Thanks.”

Derek starts down the trail, and the campers all file in after him, one after another, until it’s just Boyd and Stiles.

“After you. Derek told me I was last. Help pick up the stragglers.”

“You work for them or something?” Stiles narrows his eyes. He thought this guy was cool, seriously?

“Nah. Just volunteering. Did this last year instead of going to juvie, ended up liking it and wanted to come back. Derek helped me out with this training program, so I don’t have to pay like those guys.” Boyd jerks his head towards the kids at the front of the line, one of which has pulled a fancy compass out of her pocket and is trying to show it to Derek.

“Uh huh.”

The trail is narrow, barely even recognizable as they make their way through the trees. If Stiles wasn’t following the people in front of him, he surely would have been lost within two minutes. Every now and then they pass little markers; stones stacked atop one another, nearly blending into the landscape, but obviously manmade.

“It’s called a cairn,” Boyd says, noticing his interest.

“Whatever,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. He readjusts the pack’s straps, ignores the sweat dripping from his brow, and keeps going.

The pack seems to get heavier with each step, straps digging into his shoulders. It’s a solid weight against his back, rubbing up against his sweaty shirt. Stiles has never felt more gross in his entire life; despite the late afternoon the sun almost setting, he seems to be drenched in sweat, clothes sticking to him. He’s hot and his head hurts too much to give anyone attitude; most of the trek he’s on his own, and Stiles struggles to keep the person in front of him in sight.

Boyd gives him plenty of room, and doesn’t push to make any conversation, hangs back a few paces behind Stiles, seemingly unphased by the hike at all, and his pack looks twice as heavy as Stiles’.

The sun is setting by the time the trail descends down the slope towards a glittering lake. Sure, it’s pretty. Stiles gets why people take pictures of this kind of stuff, but it’s not worth the fucking effort to get here. He doesn’t bother looking at the scenery, just follows the group towards the large clearing by the lake.

Stiles only counts two actual cabins, and a number of smaller semi-permanent looking canvas tents, and a paddock for animals. Donkeys? And chickens, over there. Guh, he bets there’s a rooster somewhere that’s gonna crow at some awful time in the morning.

He can hear Derek talking to the group, and people are putting their packs down, ugh, finally. Stiles tunes out the instruction, settles on relieving himself of his pack, letting it fall to the ground. Stiles flops down next to it, leaning against the pack wearily, guzzling the last of his water. Stiles is aware he’s panting like a dog, trying to catch his breath, but he couldn’t care less what he looks right now.

Stiles immediately regrets thinking this but it’s too late, and there’s nothing he can do to look less of a hot mess.

A guy walks towards them, a bright grin completely lighting up his face, golden skin catching the last rays of the sun. He’s young, maybe Stiles’ age, and is laughing at something, shrugging sheepishly.

“You let the kids get you in the lake with your clothes on again, huh, Scott?”

His name is Scott and he’s _beautiful._

Scott shrugs sheepishly at Derek’s question, and the movement of his shoulders rustles the fabric of his shirt a little. His _wet_ shirt, clinging to a lovely torso that Stiles just wants to-- oh fuck, and that’s a tattoo on his arm, too, two bold stripes that stand out clearly, teasing at something more to his personality than just this first impression of sunshine and gorgeousness.

Stiles can’t help but feel a little trill of excitement in his gut; finally, another interesting camper, someone worth hooking up with. Scott’s probably one of those ones that got here earlier and are waiting for the rest of the group before going backcountry. And Derek said they would be here at basecamp three days? Sweet. Stiles will have plenty of time to make his move.

Stiles knows he probably looks like shit so he shuffles a bit backward so he’s behind Brian, out of sight.

“You all probably already met each other on the ride up, and you’ll get to meet everyone else at basecamp during dinner, but this is Scott. He’s one of our counselors in training,” Derek says.

Well. He’s not a camper then.

Stiles always did like a challenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wednesdays! Updates on Wednesdays.
> 
> Next chapter: a first meeting, and dinner shenanigans.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The game described in the chapter has many different names, from "Lava Crossing" to "Crossing the River." Scott explains some of the rules in text, but to be clear, the objective is to cross the river with your entire team and a) a tile without a person on it will "float away" b) a tile with a person that isn't physically connected to the rest of the group will "float away." The easiest solution looks like [this. ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NyrGpVABXtk)
> 
> Thank you to Jay and Charm for the beta and support.

The newest group of arrivals is a mix of scholarship campers and the paying clients; Scott’s used to the different types of attitudes and expectations by now and watches them pile into the main cabin they use for dining and cooking. It’s one of the few actual structures in the basecamp-- everyone sleeps in the semi permanent canvas tents, which are actually pretty nice, Scott thinks. They’re rowdy now, after an hour of relaxation and the chance to cleanup. He’s heard a lot of complaints already about the facilities but he puts on a cheery smile as he helps dish out the night’s dinner-- freshly baked cornbread, steamed broccoli and carrots, fluffy golden mashed potatoes, and generous slices of roast beef.

“Ooh yeah, my compliments to the chef,” a guy says as Scott plops a mound of potatoes on his plate. Joshua, Scott remembers from the brief introductions they made when the new campers arrived. He’s good with names, made mental notes on each of their faces so he can remember them, speak to them by name. It’s one of the things Derek’s been consistently impressed with, and Scott means to keep up with it. The trick is to pair their name with something you can remember them by until you get to know them better. Joshua, expensive haircut and brand-new North Face jacket.

“I’m not the cook, you should thank Violet,” Scott says, always ready to give credit where it’s due. He jerks his head backwards towards the kitchen where Violet is coming out with a new batch of cornbread. She came to camp last year instead of serving time for boosting cars, and ending up loving being in the mountains. Hiking and trekking, not so much, but Scott knows her handiness with a knife and creativity in the kitchen makes her a valuable volunteer. Violet designs all the menus for their basecamp and backcountry trips, and wrangles all the groups when it’s their turn to help her cook dinner.

Joshua lets out a sharp whistle of appreciation. “I’d love to just eat you up, girl.”

Violet narrows her eyes and sets the tray down with a heavy clang. “Move along,” she says.

“What, I don’t get cornbread?”

“We have a zero harassment policy here at WYLD. Not of the other campers, not of the counselors or volunteers. Only polite non-assholes get cornbread. Now move _along,_ ” Violet repeats.

The guy behind Joshua snickers. Scott actually had trouble remembering his name out of all of them-- Derek couldn’t pronounce it, and the guy had been too lost in his thoughts or something when they first arrived to introduce himself, so Scott had just dubbed him as Cute Freckles-- no, _just_ Freckles-- Scott really can’t afford to be thinking of the campers as cute. He does seem older than the usual lot, though, like Boyd’s age, or even Scott’s.

“Hey, I paid good money for a fucking _epic_ vacation in the woods, and part of that was for complete homemade meals. Now give me some fucking cornbread.” Joshua pushes his tray forward.

Violet rolls her eyes, and Scott can see her fist clenching-- he steps forward quickly, thinking to diffuse the situation, when a sharp whistle rings through the air.

“Joshua Meadowsweet,” Braeden says, standing up from her table. “You are directly violating the codes of conduct you agreed to before you signed up for this so-called vacation. Like Violet said, we have a zero harassment policy. I believe you just signed up for latrine duty while we’re at basecamp.”

The dining room erupts in slow laughter and Joshua grips his tray and finds himself a seat.

“Zero harassment, huh,” Cute Freckles says with a cocky tilt of his head.

Freckles, not Cute Freckles-- damn it, Scott needs to get his name.

“It’s for everyone’s benefit,” Scott replies. “We believe at WYLD in building strong friendships out here, and we do have campers who have gotten in relationships and such, but they don’t do it in the field. And for--”

“What if I ask before I flirt with you?” Freckles leans in, voice dropping to a lower whisper, inaudible to everyone else in the dining room, already preoccupied with their food. Freckles is the last one in line, and Violet’s already retreated to the kitchen. No one is paying them attention, no one can see the way this guy licks his lips like he’s in a damn porno, leaning forward over the potatoes.

No one’s ever been this _forward_ with Scott before. He feels his face turn red, and he hastily dumps a scoop of food onto the guy’s plate. “That won’t-- that doesn’t-- uh, what’s your name?”

“Stiles,” is the smug answer. “And you’re Scott.”

“So you were listening during the introductions,” Scott says, slightly amused. Stiles had seemed preoccupied with this weird, shifty thing where he kept trying to hide behind Boyd. “It’s okay, Derek’s speeches can be pretty dry and boring, I wouldn’t blame you for looking lost.”

Stiles steps in closer, smirking, until his face is mere inches away from Scott’s own. “Well I was lost in your eyes, that is. I think I need a map. Can you help me out?”

Scott blinks and then he bursts out laughing. He drops the spoon into the potatoes, and it lands with a wet plop, splashing potato into Stiles’ face. It drips slowly off and lands in lumps on his own plate, and the sight just makes Scott laugh harder.

“That was supposed to be sexy,” Stiles says, wiping his face.

“You’re the funniest guy I’ve ever met,” Scott says sincerely.

Stiles huffs but there’s a small smile on his face, and it looks the most sincere of any of the ones Scott’s seen so far.

 

* * *

 

 

Seven am is the wake up call time for campers; Scott is up at five. He goes for a run first, warming up his body against the chill of the morning mountain air. It’s a mile around the entire basecamp, and then he takes the steep trail all the way up to the lookout point to watch the sunrise.

“Good morning,” Scott says to the world, as the sun climbs over the horizon. The forest is a rich, vibrant green, and the lake is starting to sparkle with the early golden light. Scott takes a deep breath, smelling the rich earth. Below him he can see the breakfast crew starting to awake, emerging from the canvas tents one by one, still bundled up in their warm clothes. Stiles is last to exit his tent, pulled out by a surly looking Derek, who looks like he’s giving him an earful about being on time. Stiles plods along after the other campers, and Scott notices unlike the others; he’s still in his sleeping clothes-- a thin t-shirt and shorts.

Scott finishes his run, heading back to basecamp to do his chores. By the time he’s finished feeding the chickens and the burros, and the breakfast bell is ringing and the entire camp is awake.

The dining cabin is still chilly, but Scott’s plenty warm from his exercise. He heads into the kitchen, where the campers chosen to cook breakfast today are still hard at work. Stiles is standing by the counter, stirring pancake batter, shivering slightly.

Scott takes off his jacket and throws it over Stiles’ shoulders.

“I knew you liked me,” Stiles says.

“I-- you’re a camper, I’m looking out for you!”

“Mmhm.” Stiles is doing that lascivious lip-licking thing again.

Scott finds himself staring and he shakes himself. “Watch out, you’ll sprain your wrist if you keep going at that speed.” He gestures towards the rapid pace Stiles is whipping the batter.

Stiles grins. “Naw, I’ve got plenty of practice. I can jerk off three times a day at home with this hand, I’ve definitely got the muscle.”

Scott snorts. “Well, you won’t have time to do that here.”

“I can _make_ time.”

The idea of any camper having spare time-- in private, no less-- is hilarious to Scott, especially since he’s on his way to meet with the other counselors to debrief the day’s activities. It’s a jam packed schedule. They’ve only got three days to prepare these kids for a backcountry trip, get them used to the altitude, being outside, pitching their own tents, hiking and cooking for themselves. But the most important part is the teambuilding; getting a group to gel together, knowing that they’re gonna be there for each other in the next week.

Scott’s seen kids who hated each other at the start push each other and help one another get to that mountain summit; who help each other on the climb, open up about what’s going on in their lives. It’s those nights, the campfires and the intimate rawness of sharing who you are to these other people, the landscape stripping you down to the bare bones; it’s what Scott has faith in most in this program, that whatever these kids are going through, this trip is gonna help them see that they are strong enough to make it through.

Scott’s been there. And he knows while right now Stiles might be making jokes about jerking off, by the end of this week, he’ll be there too.

 

* * *

 

After breakfast-- pancakes, bacon, toast, eggs and fruit (they like to get the campers rich and filling meals the first few days), Boyd leads everyone in stretching exercises. Scott stands to the side, watching and matching the names and faces of all the campers and which new group they’re in. They’ve got three groups preparing to trek out now; one paid client group, and two scholarship groups. At debrief this morning they haven’t quite figured out now how to reorganize the scholarship groups yet-- the ones that arrived first, with Liam and Mason, are all from the same inner-city high school, and have all gone on a trek last year. They’re veterans, despite being the youngest campers here. The other group are the “alternative” campers, the ones who think camp is some sort of punishment. Ideally WYLD likes to mix them up.

Scott stands in the back, paying attention during stretching, taking note of who tries, who’s laughing, and who’s just standing there. Braeden asked him for his input, and he’s nervous, hoping he’ll have some good thoughts to share for evening debrief.

Boyd leads them into a downward dog position and Scott realizes who he’s standing behind. It seems like Stiles knows too; he glances from where he is, upside down, and he shakes his ass a little, winking at Scott.

This is really inappropriate, but it takes Scott a good second before he moves away. He hopes he’s not blushing; he just doesn’t know how to handle this kind of forward behavior. The only guy he’s dated before was Danny, who liked reservations at certain types of restaurants, and for Scott to cheer for him at his lacrosse games. They held hands and kissed sometimes, and went to Homecoming together, but Danny’s never _shaken his ass_ at Scott. Dating Danny had been simple; Danny asked Scott out for coffee, Scott liked Danny and said yes, they were together for three months when they both agreed there really wasn’t much chemistry, and stayed good friends.

Scott shouldn’t think about dating Stiles. He really shouldn’t.

By the time Scott’s pulled back to his thoughts, the stretching is over, and everyone is getting ready for their next activity.

Scott’s jacket is tossed at him. “Thanks for keeping me warm,” Stiles says jauntily, before walking off.

Liam glances between Stiles’ retreating back and at Scott, bursting into a multitude of questions. “Is he a new counselor in training too, Scott? He said the F-word at breakfast, I heard! Is he your boyfriend, Scott? Is that why you gave him your jacket to wear? Are you dating now, that’s why? I’m gonna talk to him, and tell him if he breaks your heart I’m gonna hurt him!” Liam punches his fist into his hand, and then winces in pain.

Mason throws his hands up apologetically. “I have no idea where he’s getting all this.”

“He was cold,” Scott says. “And he’s a camper. I’m not-- I wouldn’t-- date a camper.”

“I told you,” Mason says, bumping Liam with his hip.

“Shut up,” Liam says, bumping him back, but with enough force to send Mason a few steps.

“Alright, stop.” Scott’s seen this game progress to the point where Liam sprained his ankle last summer. “How about you two help me set up the games for all my teambuilding events?”

“YEAH!”

“I LOVE TEAMBUILDING!”

“What games are we gonna play today, Scott?”

 

* * *

 

Scott thinks about how enthusiastic Liam and everyone was in his first group and sighs. They’re all currently on an interpretive hike with Isaac, and he’s got the other scholarship group now.

“This is dumb,” Joshua says.

“Just try and cross the river, figure out a solution,” Scott repeats, for the third time. He folds his arms, waiting behind the blue rope that marks the “riverbank.” Ten feet away behind another piece of rope, the campers stand there in a mixture of boredom and pseudo-rebellion. They haven’t talked to each other on how to solve the problem, and the orange pieces of construction paper (they were supposed to be carpet squares, but Erica stole them to take the other group to journal out by the lookout point).

It’s easy. Scott’s seen people figure this out in ten minutes at the quickest, but these campers just don’t seem to want to do _anything._

Derek walks up to him, handing him a ice-cold water bottle. “How’s it going?”

Scott takes a grateful swig before handing it back. “I suck at this.”

Derek lifts an eyebrow. “The waiting is part of it. It’s the facilitator's job to gauge when to challenge the group, when to step back, when to question them.”

Scott kicks at the dirt in front of them. “Can I give them a hint?”

“Hm. It’s your game, your group. Do what you think they need.”

“That wasn’t an answer, Derek,” Scott says crossly.

Derek just steps back and makes a _go ahead_ gesture.

Scott shakes his head and walks towards the campers. “Alright, listen up.” Scott knows they’re smart-- he overheard a group of them talk about how to take apart a car engine, and another one was talking about social contract theory, so he knows they can solve this. Third graders have solved this in less time they’ve spent standing here. “If you can solve the puzzle in the next ten minutes, we’ll have extra time before lunch, and I’ll take you all to the lake and you guys can go for a dip if you like. Remember the rules-- you can’t touch the river, everything has to be connected, and you can’t leave the magic tiles unattended,  otherwise they’ll float away.”

There’s a chorus of interest in this idea, especially as the sun is shining hot directly down on them.

Scott smiles to himself and walks back to the other side.

Derek’s smiling at him.

“What?”

Derek jerks his head towards the group, who are now tentatively placing the “magic tiles” on the river and starting to use them to walk across, helping each other go.

“Nothing. You’re gonna be good at this, that’s all.”

Scott grins and watches the campers-- not holding hands like the easiest way (and like the challenge nudges people toward trusting and physical proximity), but holding onto shirtsleeves and fabric of their pants.

“You didn’t even give them a hint,” Derek adds proudly.

Stiles is at the forefront of the group, scowling as Joshua drops then next tile and doesn’t step on it right away.

Scott is on it, snatching the tile away. “That one floated off!” he announces. The group makes noises of frustration and curses Joshua.

Scott shrugs.

Stiles is holding the rest of the construction paper. “You know what? The goal is just to get across, right-- look, we have enough of these magic tiles to just--” and then he rips the paper in half, and then in half again, dropping them in front of him and walking all the way across.

The rest of the group follows him with glee, dropping the stay-touching-stay-connected rule, bouncing across the small pieces of paper all the way across the river.

Scott stares at Stiles, who’s grinning at him expectantly. Technically they succeeded, but ripping apart the “magic tiles” shouldn’t have been an option, given they had the right props. But these challenges are supposed to be about thinking outside the box. And while they did lose a bunch of tiles… they did make it across the river. “Good job, everyone.” Scott says. The group cheers, and Scott goes through the game debrief; pointing out good ideas, how they listened to each other for new solutions, the innovative finish.

“That was very creative, Stiles, you took a lot of initiative there,” Scott says.

“So we can go to the lake?” Nicki, a girl with purple hair in neat braids, asks, bouncing up and down impatiently. “We did your stupid river game. You promised.”

“Yeah, okay! Go on, you’ve got half an hour!” Scott waves them off.

Derek nods at Scott and starts to lead the way, the excited campers rushing off behind him.

Stiles hangs behind, picking up the pieces of paper. He hands them to Scott, and their fingers brush.

Scott’s about to pull back when Stiles catches him by the wrist. Scott can see every single one of the moles on his jaw; the pinkness of his lips, and the very air seems to still. “What are you doing?” The question comes out as a hoarse whisper, and Scott’s heart beats faster in anticipation.

“Taking initiative. What do you think?” Stiles pulls him closer and waits, his lips an inch away. Scott can feel the gentle press of his breath; can practically hear his heart pounding, like Scott’s own. Scott’s mind is whirling. Is he being kissed? Does Scott want to be kissed? Oh God help him, he _does,_ he’s only known Stiles for a day but he’s already enthralled by that quick wit and the over-the-top pickup lines, and probably has wanted to kiss him since he thought of him as Cute Freckles before he learned his name.

Except Stiles isn’t kissing him, he’s just holding this position. Or has time gone still?

Scott takes the moment, letting instinct and desire guide him, moving forward. Their lips meet in wet, hot urgency. Stiles groans, and the paper goes fluttering to the ground as his arms reach for Scott’s waist, holding him close, hands trailing up and down Scott’s back. Scott is lost for a good minute in the kiss, losing the plot completely; he’s never kissed anyone like this, like they were on the same wavelength, and Stiles--

Scott wrenches himself away, staring at Stiles in horror, catching his breath.

Stiles’ lips look all the more delectable now, reddened from the kiss, and his hair is going every which way. Scott doesn’t remember putting his hands in Stiles’ hair, but he must have; he remembers the feeling of soft hair in his hands, wanting to tug it a little…

“I can’t,” Scott finally manages. “You-- you kissed me.”

“Nope, pretty sure you kissed _me,”_ Stiles says smugly.

“You’re a camper. I’m a counselor. This isn’t right. It’s not appropriate.” Scott finds the words and says them, determined, like the tone of his voice will make it true.

“But you like me. Admit it.”

“This was a mistake. It never happened.” Scott folds his arms, ignoring the unhappy feeling curling in his gut.

“O- _kay_ then,” Stiles says, tone just a little too casual. He walks past Scott, and their shoulders brush again, and the contact sends an electric shock through him.

Scott watches as Stiles walks towards the lake, unable to move. Stiles pulls off his t-shirt in one sinuous motion, and turns to look at Scott over his shoulder. It's supposed to be a careless smirk, an _I don't care,_ but Scott can see how Stiles' gaze lingers on his own. 

There are freckles-- moles? Scott can’t tell from this distance, as Stiles is walking further away, and he finds he wants to; wants to see them up close, to drag his fingertips along Stiles’ spine.

This was supposed to be an _easy_ summer job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter preview: 
> 
> "I don't know, Scott, in another universe, I think we might have been best friends."  
> Scott laughs. "Right, and I'm a werewolf. Aroooo."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Updates will happen as often as I can.


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